


So Crowned

by baggvinshield



Series: Prompt Fills [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bilbo Remains In Erebor, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Consort Bilbo Baggins, Fluff, King Thorin, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Prompt Fill, sappy husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 10:48:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5537093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baggvinshield/pseuds/baggvinshield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night before their coronation as King and Consort, Thorin and Bilbo have some issues with crowns. (And are sappy happy husbands in love.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Crowned

**Author's Note:**

> For Alaina who prompted: "Thorin and Bilbo practicing for the coronation..." I went sliiightly off the prompt (no one is surprised), but there are definitely crowns and it’s definitely fluffy and full of happy stuff and kisses.  
> This was originally posted to my tumblr, but I've edited, cleaned it up and bit, and added a line here and there for clarity. Any remaining errors are just Oh Wells. Hope you enjoy!

 

 

 

“I still don’t understand why you all want me to wear it.” Bilbo sits down heavily in the big arm chair in the bedroom he and Thorin share. He stares none too kindly at what sits on a stiff cushion on the bureau - the Consort’s crown. It’s made of gold (of course it is, Bilbo thinks) and inlaid with a single stream of mithril that follows the lines of the intricately shaped mountain peaks. It’s a rather delicate looking thing, but Bilbo has felt its heavy weight. He’s never tried it on, but already he squirms at the thought of wearing it at all.

Thorin looks at him passively from where he stands by the closets, divesting himself of his heavier outer garments, the clothes of a king. Although the official coronation isn’t until tomorrow, Thorin has been doing his duty for months now, and dressing the part as well.

“I’m sorry, Thorin,” Bilbo says with a sigh. “I know it’s an heirloom of your people. Handed down through the generations going all the way back to the kingdom of Durin himself, under the Misty Mountains. But,” Bilbo adds with a wry grin, “I am a Hobbit.”

“But not _only_ a Hobbit.”

“I suppose I could get used to it.” Bilbo rises from his chair, stretching his back, and goes to run a finger along the edges of the crown.

He feels Thorin come up behind him, a warm steady presence. Thorin lays his hands on his shoulders, and Bilbo relaxes into the touch.

“You don’t have to wear it.” Thorin’s voice is soft, but honest.

Bilbo turns to look at him, peering up into his face. “You’re to be coronated tomorrow - _we_ are to be coronated tomorrow. I thought the whole crown-wearing was part of the whole royal ceremony. Part of the life we’re to have together, now.”

Thorin smiles, and lifts a hand to stroke Bilbo’s cheek. “I would have you by my side whether you chose to wear rags or this crown, Bilbo, but that’s not exactly what I meant. Wait here a moment.”

Thorin turns to go, but before he can get away Bilbo reaches out and catches one of his thick braids, giving it a tug. They smile and share a chaste kiss.

“I don’t know what you’re up to, Thorin-”

“Just a moment.” Thorin’s grin is too sly for Bilbo’s liking, but he contents himself to wait in the bedroom while Thorin goes out the door and closes it behind him.

Bilbo looks at the crown again and sighs, then speaks softly to himself. “Centuries upon centuries of Dwarven history, seated right on my brow.” He shakes his head, snorts a little. “Not the sort of thing a Baggins expects to be wearing, married to a king or not.”

Thorin returns then, an arm tucked behind his back and still wearing what is now turning out to be a rather mischievous smile.

“There are some who won’t be very happy about this breach in tradition,” he says, coming to stand before Bilbo again. “I meant to give this to you later, but I have to admit that, Crown of Durin’s Consort or no,” Thorin nods his head towards the golden crown, “it doesn’t suit you.”

“Thorin, enough chattering, what have you got-”

What Thorin pulls from behind his back stoppers Bilbo’s words in his mouth.

For a moment, anyway, and then he can’t help but bark out a laugh.

“Thorin!” he exclaims.

The Dwarf is starting to look a bit concerned now, clearly having expected a slightly different reaction to his presentation. The smile slips from his face and is replaced with a frown and a furrowed brow. “You don’t like it?”

Bilbo leans forward, still laughing, a grips Thorin around the upper arm. “Oh no no, I mean. Yes, I do like it, Thorin, it’s wonderful, but what will the others think? Those not of the Company - they don’t know me, or Hobbits for that matter, and-”

“I don’t care what they think. Not about this,” Thorin replies gravely.

Bilbo sobers, his laughter fading. He takes the crown from Thorin’s hands. It’s light, much lighter than the other, and bright and cheerful and much more reasonable, if not still a bit more lavish than he would think necessary or _respectable_  under any other circumstances. It’s certainly not a crown he would expect to ever see any Dwarf wearing. It’s made of metal, but aside from that, it looks about as un-Dwarfish as possible: Deep green vines and oak and willow leaves woven into a circlet, set with small holly buds, forget-me-nots, mums, and gladiolas, each flower twisted carefully into shape with the shining colored metal and accented with the corresponding-colored gems. From a distance, Bilbo thinks, turning the crown this way and that, no one will likely realize that the gems and precious stones are flowers, small as they are. But up close, it would be impossible to mistake this crown as anything but a Dwarven replica of a living flower crown, proving that Thorin had in fact listened to his explanations of the tradition; and in fact, the flower choices made it evident that the king hadn’t slept through all of Bilbo’s chatter about flower language, either.

He looks up to find Thorin watching him intently, almost nervously. Bilbo smiles, a bit embarassed and unsure of himself. The mithril shirt had been one thing, but this gift was obviously made for him personally. Bilbo finds that he still sometimes doesn't know quite how to respond to the depth of Thorin’s love and devotion.

“It’s wonderful Thorin, truthfully. I’ll be much more comfortable in this one. Thank you.”

Thorin smiles, and bends to kiss Bilbo warmly on the mouth. “Then I am glad I finished it in time.”

Bilbo pulls back and rolls his eyes. “You made this yourself? Of course you did. Forget I asked.” Bilbo inspects the intricate craftsmanship a bit more closely. “Incredible,” he says on a breath, and looks up again to see Thorin beaming happily at him, eyes shining with more than just the candlelight. Bilbo can’t help but return his grin, and they stay that way for a long moment before Bilbo shakes himself as if from a trance, huffing a small laugh at how ridiculously happy they are at times.

“We’re all set for tomorrow, then.” He sets his new crown next to the gold one, steps back to look at the two side-by-side. They could hardly be more different, and Bilbo shakes his head again, holding back another laugh.

“Aye, I believe we are. Are you feeling better?”

“I think… I think I’m nervous, if truth be told.”

Thorin’s lip twists up in a half smile. “You? Bilbo, you’ve faced a dragon, orcs, battle - what about _this_ could possibly fray your nerves?”

Bilbo folds his arms across his chest. “Thorin, I’ve never even  _ worn  _ a crown before, for goodness sakes. Not a real one. I don’t know how it will fit, how it will feel, not to mention the fact that absolutely everyone in the mountain and most of the residents of New Dale will be watching, some of them just waiting to see if I do anything foolish. I know you’ve been born and bred for this sort of thing, but I-”

He stops short when Thorin steps forward abruptly, grabs up the crown he’d made, and turns to place it on Bilbo’s head in one swift move.

“There,” Thorin says with a grin, while Bilbo lets out a sound that can really only be called a squawk.

“Thorin!” Bilbo’s hands fly up to touch the thing on his head, but he finds that he can barely feel it, light as it is. “Huh…”

“Forgive me, I realize this occasion probably deserves more solemnity-”

“And formality, and probably respect, and-”

“Yes, but I would have you understand - you and I are already married in the eyes of my people, Bilbo. You are already their Consort, a leader to them. And most importantly to me at least, you are my husband. If you wanted to forego this ceremony entirely-”

“Thorin, honestly-”

“I only mean that - Bilbo, would you love me, even if I was not a king?”

Bilbo snorts. “Your being king has nothing to do with how I feel about you, Thorin, you know that.”

“Exactly. Just as you wearing a crown, cooperating with this ceremony, acting legally as the Consort of this kingdom, has no bearing on my love for you. You can do as much work as you like, or lounge about in leisure. I would and will love you regardless. Don’t don crowns for my sake, or do anything you don’t want to do.”

Bilbo sniffs and looks at Thorin hard a moment, then strides over to his closet to examine himself in the mirror there. The crown is so slight it nearly fades into his curly hair, and it does look very much like a circlet of vines and flowers.

“This crown, I happen to like,” he says after a time. Thorin watches him, and he meets his eyes in the reflection in the mirror. “It isn’t a hardship, you know, for me to do things that you’ll like. Things that will make you happy. It isn't so hard to believe we might want the same things."

Thorin’s lips part as if to speak, but he says nothing, his face blank but his eyes wide, soft.

“I may not be thrilled to wear something that’s a relic of your people’s history, Thorin - beautiful as it is - but that doesn’t mean that what I want for myself here, in this new life with you, isn’t the same as what you want. You and I will not suddenly be at odds now, just as everything else has finally turned out well for you.”

Thorin stares, silent.

Bilbo steps back from the mirror and goes to him, smiling gently this time. “I would love you king or not. But as you are, in fact, the king, I’d very much like to be your Consort, properly that is.” He places a hand against Thorin’s chest, feels the heat of his skin beneath his shirt.

Thorin’s fingers close gently around Bilbo’s wrist. “If you want this,” he says, his voice low, a bit hoarse.

“I do. Now,” Bilbo goes up on his toes, “kiss me, and let’s get to bed - we’ve an early morning ahead of us, what with all this pageantry and crowning and-”

Thorin kisses him, cupping Bilbo’s face in his palms, kisses him deep and slow and warm, until they’re both smiling and bumping noses and moving together towards their bed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> these sappy dorks slay me how bout you


End file.
